Proper Name
by Merida Hughsie
Summary: What a Difference a proper name make. Isobel finds out about the power of words.
1. Orphan

**_A._/N.: I reposted this, due to formating problems. I'm also thinking about doing a second part to this with chapters about what she still is. Please leave a review and tell me what you think. **

Proper Name

Orphan

I have lost my mother very early in life. From the moment I heard the news from Father I felt lost. Mother was gone … she had left me … she would never come back to us. At first my mind had been unable to comprehend what that meant. Numb – that is the word for how I felt. My father had been a doctor and I had seen a lot of patients come through the doors of his office, in various conditions and various states of health. Yet I had been utterly unprepared to face the death of either of my own parents. This cut deeper than anything I had ever seen, experienced, felt before. Slowly my eyes filled with tears and I was surprised to feel the wet sting of them pouring down my cheeks.

Before I could ask Father for more details, for some small measure of comfort, I felt a tiny hand clasp my nightgown. I have to admit that I dreaded looking down. Nevertheless I couldn't not. As predicted, I was met by the round-eyed, innocent face of my youngest brother. David tugged at my nightgown again and asked the fatal question.

"Is the baby here yet?" He sounded so eager to see our new sibling that it broke my heart cleanly in two … "When can we go see mummy?" … and shattered it into a million pieces.

oOoOoOo

In a way we lost our father that day, too. He withdrew deeply inside himself and more often than not was unable to look us children in the eyes for fear of seeing the ghost of his late wife staring back at him through our eyes. We became a source of grief to him and we felt it every single day.

oOoOoOo

Orphan. That is what they called us from then on. Orphan. How I hated that word! Every time we heard it Michael and David seemed to cringe away, to shrink. I, though, felt my hackles rise every time I was addressed as a 'poor little orphan' – no matter how accurate it was to describe our situation. I loathed that name, but it was a name I had to bear … and with time it became part of me.


	2. Widow

**_Widow_**

I sat next to Reginald throughout this stupid dinner with his colleagues and some visiting doctors from London. I could clearly see that he was not well. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and his face was quite red – of course that could be because he was involved in a heated discussion about new methods in diagnosing heart problems in infants. On the other hand, he was repeatedly tugging at his collar and was breathing rather harshly. To my critical nurse's eyes he looked ill. To be honest, he had looked a bit ragged for days and I had beseeched him to slow his pace down and to rest more often, not miss so many meals. Reginald had forcefully reminded me that he was the doctor and knew what was best for him and that I should stop worrying about him.

So now we were here and I had to listen to endless, inane discussion about heart conditions, difficult, prolonged labour and umbilical cords wrapped around babies' necks, all the while watching my husband becoming more agitated by the minute. I had seldom felt so powerless.

One of the other doctors' wives offered me a delicate flute filled with champagne mixed with some juice. "Let them," she said kindly. "I have long since given up getting my husband's attention when he was in his element, discussing medicine. It's hopeless, really, like children with their favourite toy."

She laughed a silvery, insincere laugh and took my elbow in her hand, gently drawing me to the group of sofa and armchairs where the women resided. I had never really belonged to their circle, being far too involved in Reginald's clinic and with my own small family. They thought me 'high and mighty' and I thought them 'boring and self-absorbed'.

Reluctantly I let her drag me along, but even though I kept a close eye on my husband. I noticed Reginald gasping for breath from clear across the room. A scream lodged in my throat when I saw him grasp his left arm and groan deeply. Instantly I was on my feet, starting forward to rush to his side. Before I could reach him, he was falling, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Tears began to stream down my face and I forgot everyone around me. Falling down onto my knees in complete disregard for my dress or manners, I checked his pulse. My fingers scrambled over his neck, but I couldn't make out even the slightest hint of it under my fingertips.

"Don't you dare leave me Reginald," I wasn't quite aware I was mumbling that under my breath as I was somewhat helplessly tugging at his collar.

oOoOoOo

Three days after that incident, I sat very much in the same position, leaning over my husband. Now, though, I knew that there was no hope. He was gone and wouldn't return to me or his son. With trembling fingers I smoothed down his crisp shirt and for the last time stroked a wisp of hair back off his forehead. These were the last few quiet moments before the wake and I intended to draw strength from them so I could survive the following hours … the rest of my lonely life.

oOoOoOo

"Here is the Widow Crawley."

I could hear that sentence even in my sleep. It haunted my mind every moment, day or night. Once again I loathed the name people had given me after a traumatic event in my life. Widow. I shuddered at the cold, harsh reality of the word. It was the epitome of coldness, loneliness, and sadness. There was no husband any more to whom I could snuggle up at night, seeking warmth and closeness. No one waited for me at home with Reginald now gone and Matthew off to University.


	3. Nothing Left

_**Nothing Left**_

We were all sitting in the library, overjoyed by the news of Mary's safe delivery and the birth of an heir for Downton Abbey. The atmosphere in the room seemed to vibrate with happiness. After poor Sybil's tragic death, we had all held our breath and prayed for a happy outcome, but mother and child had made it through and were doing very well. I could see Cora fairly beaming with pride and I was rather sure I was not far behind her. Even Cousin Violet couldn't spoil the happy, relaxed atmosphere with her caustic comments.

Then the shrill sound of the telephone shattered the peaceful, homely scene and we could hear Carson answering it. Robert decided he would joke off the sudden tension, "You could that be? News couldn't have travelled that fast …"

"What?!"

Carson's uncharacteristic lapse in manners interrupted Robert mid-sentence and immediately drew all our attention to the hall and the telephone call.

"Dear God, please not Mary," Cora breathed out, her hand going to her throat and her skin paling to the point when I feared she might faint.

I rose from my seat, – to be by her side in an instant if the need should arise – but in that moment Carson fairly burst through the door. He looked pale and despite his urgency very reluctant to enter the room and make his announcement. Then he spotted me and for a ridiculous moment I feared I would have to catch _him_ when _he_ fainted. All colour drained from his face and he swallowed thickly. I distinctly remember that I found it odd that he wasn't addressing Cousin Robert, his master after all. Apparently it was up to me to find out what was going on.

"Carson, is it the child? Dr Clarkson was absolutely certain Lady Mary was tired, but well," I said, even if a bit forcefully cheerful.

The gentle expression on Carson's face was strangely unnerving to me. His hand instinctively went out to touch me, but he recovered some manners at the last minute and withdrew the gesture. A great sadness had taken up residence in his eyes, and I felt my heart plummet. A lump formed in my throat and I felt as if a great vice would squeeze the air from my lungs. Subconsciously I was preparing for the worst.

Then he began to speak …

"Mr Crawley …"

I didn't hear more, only a deafening roar in my ears. No! Not my son! Not my only child. Oh, dear, merciful lord, not my child.

oOoOoOo

I cannot for the life of me remember how I got to the hospital, but that is the next thing I became aware of. I only came to somewhat when I was shown into the room that held my broken son. The nurses had done a good job of cleaning the blood off him (if there had been any – oh God, let him at least have died to painless death!) and I white sheet covered his entire body except his head. For a second I could fool myself into believing he was simply asleep, but then the crushing realisation came back and new tears ran down my face.

There were no words, nothing coherent I could utter. I couldn't even scream – it was lodged somewhere in my throat. Besides what was there to say. No words could possibly change the truth before my eyes, could console the heartbreak I felt.

I had buried both my parents and my husband and now I had to bury our son, the only thing left to me to remind me of our love.

There was nothing left in my life.

Only a bottomless void, threatening to swallow me up.

oOoOoOo

They all tiptoed around Mary and me. Cousin Violet had stopped to aggravate me; in fact she didn't disagree with me on anything and seemed to butter me up. If anything, it made matters worse, only bringing it home how much my life had changed.

Mary at least had her family around her and little George to cling to, to cherish, and to remember his father by. She was now Widow Crawley. It was a title I had held for so long – still did, come to think of it – and that I had loathed since the first time I heard it directed at me. Widow. The hated name, but somehow I found myself envying Mary for it. At least it was a name to give this awful feeling, this void, this endless nightmare.

What do you call a mother who has lost her child?

How do you describe the regret of not being the one in the grave?

How do you explain the deep ache in your soul where once your child had resided?

How do you banish the memories?

How do you fill the emptiness under your heart that had once carried your child?

What name do you give it?


End file.
